


Unearthed

by neontiger55



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Friendship, Gen, Season 3 Spoilers, Season 4 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:30:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neontiger55/pseuds/neontiger55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal and Peter reach a stalemate. Tag to 4.05.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unearthed

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 4.04 and 4.05 specifically.

 

Neal pushed off from where he had been drifting on the pool floor, toes skimming across the smooth ceramic tiles as he began to cut through the cool, silky water. The low temperature was going some way in relieving the tension in his head and shoulders, but hadn’t slowed the racing of his mind. 

They put Ellen in the ground six days ago. A simple civilian service. It still didn't seem real. 

He remembered watching a cop show when he was a kid where a central character had been killed off in a shoot out. The funeral was dramatic, a procession of men and women in blue, an armed salute and a flag resting over the coffin. And it had been with a jolt of pride that Neal had realised that that was how his father’s funeral would have been carried out, dignified and heroic. With his mother’s silence and without any pictures, he had been left to superimpose fiction onto reality to make the pieces fit. Ironic now, of course. But standing in that vast cemetery overlooking Manhattan, he wished Ellen could have been given that honour. She deserved so much more than a humble ceremony delivered by a priest who was full of trite platitudes.

Neal breached the surface of the water with practiced ease, soundlessly drawing breath before slipping back under.

It was late, or very early, depending on how you saw it, the gym entirely devoid of people save for a security guard who would turn a blind eye for surprisingly little. The space to think far outweighed the risk of swimming alone. Though, these days there were too many sounds and images crowding his mind, clamouring for his attention in the silence. Ellen’s cold fingers touching his for the last time. The bright lights of the ER and the tightness of his chest. The sharp thrill of the art heist clouding out all reservations and the blissful, fleeting sensation of control. And Peter, emerging from the city crowds, his expression dark with anger. That was the image Neal kept circling back to, like someone turning rosary beads between their fingers: the storm brewing in Peter’s eyes and the distance opening up between them. Even after all this time Neal still didn’t care about the law, not in any meaningful way, but he cared about Peter. It was always the faltering point that kept him suspended somewhere between right and wrong.

Sometimes, back when Peter was chasing him, Neal fantasised that Peter wasn’t an agent after all, would wonder what it would be like if Peter’s morals weren’t so firm and unwavering, if he had been born into chaos instead. Would they have been partners then too? He imagined what it would be like to pull a real heist together, to have Peter’s intelligence and loyalty like a safety net as he slipped into a vault or museum, as the stunts grew more and more audacious and their infamy blossomed. He imagined introducing Peter to his contacts, saw the impressed looks on their faces as Peter cut through their bullshit and bargained hard. The wanted posters probably would have read _Burke and Caffrey_ , and secretly, Neal wouldn’t have minded. But that fantasy always crumbled, collapsed in on itself like a burnt out Chinese lantern. The Peter in his mind’s eye was never really _Peter_ , just a badly composed forgery; Neal had always prided himself on the power of his imagination but even he couldn’t synthesise Peter’s motivations, or his enjoyment in taking what didn’t belong to him.

Neal surfaced, emerging into the quiet. Swimming to the edge of the pool, he rested his chin on folded arms as he caught his breath. His right leg was starting to cramp, the still healing muscle protesting the over exertion. Closing his eyes he took deep breaths, waiting impatiently for the pain to subside. But as the tension eased and his breathing slowed, he had the sudden sensation that he wasn’t alone. The pool area was swathed in darkness, the only light coming from those embedded underwater in the walls of the pool itself and the low-level security lights. Looking towards the doors on his left, Neal's heartbeat quickened, adrenaline flaring as he saw the silhouette of a man just decipherable from the deep shadows. It took a stunned second for Neal to recognize him. 

“Peter.”

Peter startled imperceptibly, as though he hadn’t realised he was visible. “Neal, I’m sorry, I – ” He stepped forward, the refracted light on the undulating water rippling across his face.

“What are you doing here?” Neal asked, voice harsh from the fright. Pushing himself out of the water, he walked carefully across the cold floor and wrapped a towel around his shoulders, feeling vulnerable standing there next to Peter half dressed. He smoothed down the leg of his swim shorts, ensuring it covered his scar completely.

Peter’s eyes followed Neal’s hand, before returning to his face. “I checked your anklet and saw that you were here. It’s late. I was worried.”

Neal raised an eyebrow. “Why were you checking my anklet at two in the morning?”

Peter shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“You know, most people make a hot drink, read a book…”

“Most people don’t have their very own convict to keep track of. The data always makes for interesting reading.”

Neal smiled tightly, half irritated at the invasion of privacy, half pleased that Peter still cared enough to drive into Manhattan in the dead of night to find him. He pulled the towel more closely around his shoulders, shivering in the cool air. “Well, as you can see, I’m not doing anything _particularly_ illegal.”

“No. Just _particularly_ stupid."

Neal bristled. “If you’ve come here to lecture me – ”

“I didn’t. Really,” Peter said quickly. He eyed Neal appraisingly and Neal did his best to stop his teeth from chattering. “Look, why don’t you get dressed and we’ll talk?”

Neal nodded, still wary, and turned to pull his clothes from his gym bag. After a moment he glanced at Peter who was still standing there expectantly. “The changing rooms are locked and I don't have my picks, so if you could – ” Neal motioned for Peter to turn around.

“Oh, right. Sure.” Peter held up his hands and turned his back, moving away to give Neal space.

Neal dressed swiftly and he and Peter exited the building together, the security guard giving Peter a cagey glance; Neal nodded to him as they passed, slipping a small roll of cash across the desk without Peter seeing.

  
  
*  
  
  
They ordered coffee and sat at a table in the window of a diner around the corner from the gym, its décor seemingly unchanged since the ‘70s. He and Peter were the only two customers in the place; the waitress sat at the counter surrounded by books, working on what looked like a college assignment.

Shards of light spilled out from the building onto the darkened street, bending at acute angles that reminded Neal of an Edward Hopper painting he was currently…recreating. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, Peter looked tired and drawn; a glance at his own reflection told Neal he didn’t look much better. He ran a hand through his damp hair, smoothing it down where it was curling at the back. “So. You wanted to talk?” he said, drawing Peter from his own reverie.  
  
Peter took a long sip of his coffee and nodded. “With all the politics at the bureau, I realise I haven’t been as much of a friend as you need right now. Everything that happened with Ellen...I know it's been tough on you."  
  
“Things are shaky. I get that,” Neal said, neutrally, already certain there was going to be a sting in the conversation somewhere.  
  
“They are, but it’s nothing irreparable. As long as we keep our heads down and close some cases, it’ll blow over.”  
  
Neal poured cream into his coffee and stirred slowly, waiting for Peter to continue.  
  
“We’ve been through a hell of a lot together these past few months. But today, watching you on that surveillance footage - it made me see that nothing has really changed, even after all this time." Peter sighed. "We’ve taken one step forward and two steps back.”  
  
“That’s not fair – ”  
  
Peter held up a hand to cut Neal off, studying him. “Why did you really steal the art instead of coming to me?” There was no anger in his voice, no real disappointment, just resignation, curiosity perhaps.  
  
Neal laughed and let the teaspoon drop onto the table with a clatter. “Abigail was _blackmailing_ me, Peter. I told you I didn’t want you to get caught up in that.” The truth, which they both knew, was a little different. Neal looked at Peter defiantly, daring him to voice the accusation out loud.  
  
Peter shook his head, his whole body seeming to deflate. “I’ve done a lot for you, Neal. I don’t regret any of it, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. But this is where I draw the line.”  
  
Cold realisation suddenly dawned. “You’re asking me to let it go?” Neal said, incredulous.  
  
“I’m asking you to trust the system and the law.”  
  
Neal snorted derisively. “I think we both know the law is not infallible, Peter. I’ve got the bullet hole in my leg to prove it.”  
  
“Just let the Marshals investigate Ellen’s death,” Peter persisted. “Give yourself time before you rush headfirst into…whatever this is.”  
  
“ _This_ is my past. This is about getting justice for Ellen.”  
  
“It’s obvious you’re stirring up a lot of debris.” Peter’s expression was inscrutable, his voice firm. “I’m trying to protect you.”  
  
“No. You’re trying to protect yourself.” Neal stood abruptly, too tired and on-edge to start hashing out the finer points of trust with Peter here and now. He shrugged on his jacket, placed a large tip onto the table and escaped out into the street without another word. Burning with frustration, he started down the avenue, deciding to walk the seven blocks back to June’s to calm himself. A moment or two later he heard the clink of a door and Peter’s quick footsteps echoing behind him.  
  
“Neal!”  
  
“Go home, Peter.”  
  
“C’mon, Neal, it’s late. Let me give you a ride.”  
  
Neal threw Peter a sideways glance as he caught up with him and stopped short. “I thought I was the menace to society in this equation?” He knew he was being petty, but in that moment failed to care.  
  
"Don't be ridiculous - " Peter sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Look, just think about what I said. Okay? Cool your heels and we’ll talk.”  
  
Neal shook his head, desperately trying to quell his anger. 

“I’ll see you Monday,” Peter said, though he phrased it like a question, something he hadn’t done since they first started working together.

“See you Monday.”

Peter tapped him on the arm before walking away. Neal watched him disappear around the corner before reaching for his cell. He hesitated a second before dialing. The phone rang three times before there was a click, then silence.

“Moz. Any progress?”

 

 


End file.
